What Time Allows Us
by randomcat23
Summary: Their relationship gets its chance to grow behind the safety of the prison walls and fences. Caryl. Post Season 3.
1. Wasting Time

**Disclaimer:** Nope, I do not own The Walking Dead.

Post Season 3.

* * *

Daryl Dixon was, quite possibly, a robot.

He took night shifts without complaint, prowling the prison grounds and guard tower with sharp eyes. Supply runs, hunting, and the dictated list of necessities were completed with the efficiency of a machine. When others collapsed in the shade, Daryl picked up the dropped tools and reinforced the fence, gruffly shrugging off suggested breaks.

He'd shouldered the role of protector and provider, but forgot to apply some of that attentiveness to himself.

Now that they lived safely behind the fences of the prison and months had passed without so much as a sniff of the Governor, it seemed silly for the archer to not fall into some kind of regular sleep pattern.

Everyone else had established semi-normal sleep habits, even Rick.

If Daryl was protector and provider, Carol labeled herself as the organizer. Fifty people may have been a small population before the turn, but now it was a chaotic metropolis. She held the master list of chores and always had a task to pass off on to a lazy person.

Who needed what, when, and how much? Ask Carol. All looked to her for such details and she gladly accepted the role, relishing smooth operations.

Since she was always involved in the ebb and flow of prison work, Carol's ears caught gossip like a spider web. After netting more than a handful of amazed conversations about Daryl's productivity, she privately assigned herself to monitoring Daryl's sleep patterns.

After all, how could he continue to match the schedule thrust upon him if he didn't catch a wink or two? The prison needed him on his feet.

Carol needed him for reasons that went beyond fresh deer and supply runs.

It was by no means a new task for her, but it was certainly one she had let slide a bit since everyone from Woodbury had moved in.

Days into her focused investigation, she confirmed a couple of things.

One, Daryl did sleep, but in short bursts. She had already assumed this conclusion since she knew from their fleeting touches that he was, in fact, human.

Two, these short bursts came when everyone else was busy.

These facts revealed themselves to her in one productive night during and after dinner. The man in question had returned earlier with a handful of rabbits and a surprising amount of rare prizes such as hot sauce, wild garlic, and socks.

The condiment was quickly absconded by Glenn and Maggie who were on dinner duty. Hershel plucked the bucket of garlic from Daryl's hands with a nod of gratitude and an explanation to Rick that it would do well in the garden. And the socks, well, Michonne did her best to divide them up to those who needed them most.

The entire scene lasted only a handful of minutes, but Carol caught how pride relaxed Daryl's shoulders and the way he observed the group's smiles.

He'd done good.

Then came the tricky part. The outdoor kitchen was suddenly overwhelmed with the clattering of pans and pots. Benches were scooted across concrete and flames crackled and snapped in the fire pit. Smoke rushed to the sky from the lit wood, sparking a few coughing fits.

In the hustle and bustle (controlled, in part, thanks to her divvying up tasks) Carol lost track of Daryl. Peeved, she abandoned table setting to Beth and went out in search.

The kicker was realizing that he had gone; he could slide in the room and then out again like a cat. She found him easily enough though, tucked in his cell now that the entire block was empty of people scurrying around for dinner. One arm folded under his head, Daryl had conked out the second he hit the bed.

Confirmed: Daryl Dixon, did in fact, sleep.

Carol took this knowledge back downstairs, putting away her figurative Sherlock Holmes hat in the process.

Later, she prepared a plate for the slumbering hunter and once dinner had wrapped up, Carol returned to Daryl's cell. From the metal steps, she caught lines of the song Beth sang that night and Glenn's laughter. Somewhere else, Judith let out a delighted burble, the stark walls carrying even such a soft noise. She paused and listened. Who would have thought such happiness could be found behind concrete block?

By the time she reached his cell, Daryl was already sitting up and rubbing his eyes. It could not have been more than a couple of hours after his return, but there he was, stretching like it was morning and he had a whole day's worth of work to do.

And he probably did.

"Here," she passed him the plate and processed her findings while leaning against the doorway.

Even if Glenn or Tyreese offered to go on a run, Daryl stepped in to take at least one of the seats in the vehicle. The prison's growing population demanded more food, and as a primary provider of protein, Daryl walked out the gates empty-handed and arrived later with rabbits, squirrels, and sometimes a deer.

He took on more than his share. She had known he accepted the never ending list of tasks simply _as_ his share. Carol noted the bags under his eyes, the only obvious evidence of his strain. There just weren't more than a few minutes where he wasn't being sought after by someone.

Herself included.

Daryl wolfed down the pile of spiced rabbit and gave her a gruff thanks, softened only by his briefly upturned lips.

"You're welcome." Another round of laughter from downstairs echoed. Carol shrugged herself off the wall. Patting the rough doorway, she mused, "We'll have to get something to reduce the sound."

Daryl hummed, "Next time I go out." He ran his finger through the last of the hot sauce residue on the plate and licked it clean. Simultaneously, one arm reached out with the empty plate and the other grabbed a knife to be sharpened.

She took the offered plate, shaking her head. Of course he'd take her mindless musings and make them a priority. That realization tickled her a bit, so she allowed herself to linger for a moment more to drink him in, watching his methodical strokes against the blade.

"Don't make a special trip." It came out as a warning, though there really was no consequence behind it.

He glanced up from the knife on his thigh and unconvincingly promised to not make a big deal out of it.

* * *

Determined to make sure at least one person cared for his health, (a role, she admitted, she committed to back in the day when everyone tensed up around him, said his name under their breath like a minor curse) Carol continued to bring him food and prodded him until he took sufficient catnaps.

Laundry duty gave her the perfect excuse to leave the community and tiptoe up to his cell.

 _"Oh, why am I here? Laundry of course!"_

 _"Pants and shirts are folded."_

 _"I got that blood out and now I'm returning it."_

 _"These finally dried after that storm came through."_

For weeks, Carol prepared a new excuse each day so that _just in case_ someone asked, she didn't run the risk of stammering and giving away her true goal. Conveniently, Daryl's never-ending job list provided her never-ending pile of laundry.

But, like all things in the prison lately, Carol leaving dinner with a plate and Carol going to his cell with clean clothes became so routine, she stopped crafting excuses and accepted Maggie's knowing smirks.

Some days he slept on his side.

Others on his back, arms crossed over his chest.

Sometimes he twitched, caught up in a dream.

All the time fully clothed and with boots tied to his feet.

There was a joke somewhere in the fact that his bangs hung in his eyes like blinds; she'd seen the sun hit his eyelids without him stirring an inch. She was determined to bring it up to him, convinced that he'd turn two shades of pink. One, because of the light flirting, and two due her noticing something as mundane as his hair length.

Her quiet steps were a gift from Ed, one of the few life skills he left her. Venturing down a concrete hallway silently was a little different than a carpeted one, but the idea was the same: Light feet. Her daily observations continued for several weeks, just a peek or two a day into his cell as he slept.

In that time, the prison environment evolved. The new additions from Woodbury finally evolved from "them" to "us." Grey walls were now decorated with splashes of color, blankets, picture frames, posters. The last meal of the day could be called a banquet more often than not.

The days lengthened until the climax of summer and then started the slow dive back towards darkness.

* * *

For whatever reason, Tuesdays (somebody from Woodbury kept track) were sluggish days and Daryl usually caught an extra nap in the afternoon.

Just as the sun hit its zenith, Daryl disappeared into his cell with a groggy nod, but not before brushing past Carol close enough to tingle the hairs on her arm.

It was well into the afternoon at this point, and he still hadn't emerged.

Good.

When her hands weren't soaking clothes in soapy water, or dishing out jobs, they were occupied with Judith. She was the one bright spot in Rick's drab cell. While nearly everyone else had found small decorations to claim as their own, Rick had kept his room strictly functional: Crib along the wall, clothes on the top bunk, emergency baby food in a crate, neatly stacked, boots on the floor. His revolver rested in a drawer, lonely, but waiting.

Lil Asskicker, all curly hair and chubby arms, had finally drifted into dreamland. Carol adjusted the blankets and cast a small smile down at the girl.

Carol heard Daryl's steps approach and then the purposeful stop. From the hallway he drawled, "You creepin' on that baby?"

A quick side glance revealed his lean form taking up the door space, hands stuffed in pockets. "I don't think Judith minds."

"Yeah, well, she's only _one_ of your victims."

Oh, she'd been caught. So much for light footsteps.

Flushing, Carol owned up to it, "I'm only checking up on you."

He snorted, "Thanks, but you can keep the sneaky stares to yourself." Dirt caught under his boots as Daryl shifted his feet. "Ain't gotta waste your time on me."

"Somebody's got to," Carol quipped, tempted to add that she _wanted_ to waste time _on_ him. (Maybe wiggle her hips a bit at the joke.)

He denied her claim with a shake of his head. "You got enough on your plate."

With a final pat to the blanket, Carol approached him so that their hushed conversation was less likely to wake the baby. This close, she could smell the outdoors on him, all dirt and sweat. "Says the man who hunts, is always going on runs, who brings people in,...rarely sleeps." She settled for punctuating the end of her argument with a raised eyebrow, rather than pokes to his chest. (Her fingers itched to touch him, but that was a border rarely crossed.) Carol clasped her hands behind her back while he crafted a response, hoping that they could stretch out this moment between them.

Daryl crossed his arms. "I know your busy. Always cookin', cleanin', organizin' people..." he frowned, and added, "carryin' someone else's kid..."

As if answering the call out, Judith stirred and begged to be picked up. Carol obliged and then turned back to Daryl to bat her eyelashes playfully, "I always have time for you, Pookie."

The pet name prompted a twitch in the corner of his mouth before he dipped his head. A second later, the almost-grin faded. His eyes glazed over her form and her breathe hitched just slightly under the scrutiny. "You're better off sittin' down for a second," the low response not more than a rumble through his chest.

What an idea.

At that moment the stairs outside creaked under Beth as she reached the top. "Need any help, Carol?"

"Perfect timing." Carol handed Judith to the teenager and declared, "I think I'm going to have a sit."

* * *

If he insisted that a sit was needed, then she insisted that he joined her, other tasks be damned. She was the organizer and Carol decided his next task was a sit.

She was about to plop down on the stairs, but followed Daryl to the recently swept floor and found a spot there. The extra effort to park on the ground paid off; they could sit side by side and the wall was cool against her exposed shoulder blades.

As per usual, she was the one to begin, to coax spoken moments between them, "First council meeting next week."

He answered with a non-committal huff.

"Did you change your mind about it?" The back of her head rolled along the wall so she could face him. She could practically see the gears working between his ears as he nibbled at the skin around his thumb.

Finally, "Rick should be in it."

"He felt it best if he wasn't involved," Carol regurgitated the excuse Rick had given for stepping away from a leadership role. Pigs and crops and children were what occupied his mind now.

Another rough sigh escaped Daryl, but he offered no further explanation.

They all had their duties; how long could they wait for Rick to take up his again? The Governor may be gone, but what if there was another threat?

Daryl didn't elaborate even after a few more minutes passed, but she nodded in agreement with his unspoken opinion: Daryl didn't have to like it, but he wasn't going to fight Rick on it either.

They, Daryl the provider and Carol the organizer, could hold it together until Rick was ready.

And he'd have to be, eventually.

The two of them sat until the sun turned golden and the air cooled. When the conversation never start again, Carol closed her eyes and focused on Daryl's steady breathing. She could almost pretend that the world hadn't fallen, that noisy neighbors were just mowing their lawns and that she was sitting on the porch with her . . .

At some point, she had slouched enough for their bare shoulders to touch, both sticky in the humidity. They remained that way even when Beth came down with a rested Judith and left to join the hustle and bustle outside.

Daryl was right, sitting was a good way to spend an afternoon, way better than spying on him as he napped.

Carol laced her fingers together in her lap. Judging from the sun, dinner would be served soon and it was sure to be a treat; that morning, Hershel had proclaimed the first batch of tomatoes ready.

What a wonder, sitting willingly on the floor of a prison with her mouth watering over the idea of fresh tomatoes. By old world definition, the situation was fantastical. Now, it was a blessing, these walls and the ability to grow food.

From the grounds outside, someone rang the dinner bell; an action from a bygone era that only succeeded in calling more walkers to the outer fence. But, that's where they were at this point, comfortable enough with their home that they could taunt the dead with old traditions.

Carol snuck a glance at the man beside her, thankful that they now had the time to create new ones.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Ugh, I miss the prison. I'm sure this has been done by a million other people, but I couldn't resist the whole "what if the prison never fell" idea.

So, there really isn't much plot here besides slow relationship development. It's kinda rambles a bit, I'm sure. I will say that this is more of the "set up" chapter. There's more fluffy interaction in the second/final part.

Thanks for reading! Feedback is greatly appreciated.-randomcat23


	2. Finding Time

**Disclaimer:** Randomcat23 does not own The Walking Dead.

* * *

Daryl's reserved nature always forced them to speak with subtle actions over spoken words, but the increased activity in the prison expedited the need for efficient distant communication.

She treasured the tilted head in her direction just as he left for a run, _"Hey, stay safe, remember?"_

Carol always patched his clothing first, using the thickest tread. _"Try to make this last longer, okay?"_

Sometimes they played the old game of telephone, intentionally or not:

 _"Hershal told me that Daryl asked about you. What do you need him to get on the next run?"_

 _"Well, I know Carol wanted to make sure you ate this. So eat it."_

She had noticed that as the community continued a steady pattern of life, Daryl's naps, while still short, were consistent. The fear of him falling over on his feet due to exhaustion faded. Which led her to be more inclined to watch him at other times.

From the water barrels, Carol observed the light glistening off the sweat on Daryl's collarbone as he tinkered with the motorcycle. Even across the yard, the grease smudges stood out on the contours of his arms. She giggled at the grimy swipes across his scruffy cheeks when she saw him that evening. He swatted away her teasing, but later accepted a damp towel from her.

Carol's heart ached when Daryl took Judith from Beth and hummed a tune to dry up the baby's tears. It was always the same song that formed in the back of his throat, folksy and familiar. She finally recognized it as the tune that the farmer sings to the pig in the movie _Babe_.

She watched him avoid social interaction like some people avoided yard work, yet relished the fact that he let her find him. Goodness knows he could have disappeared if he _really_ wanted to.

There were days when they didn't see each other. The council establishment had everyone buzzing with ideas and the community leaders occupied with forming a structured society. How do we settle disagreements? Can you be kicked off the council? Do we reclaim a cell block to make a jail? How are we distributing goods? There were countless questions addressed at each meeting, which were answered through additional tasks and runs.

There were too many people living here for a run to not happen at least twice a week. Carol found herself stepping away from the laundry tub more often than not to address one thing or another. However, on the slower days, when he was around, she would pause and observe him.

It was no secret that he did the same to her.

Maggie had gotten good at nudging Carol with her elbow every time the younger woman caught Daryl watching the silvered-haired lady. They never exchanged words about it, but Carol would shrug, feigning disinterest, and Maggie would burst out laughing.

The real secret was the close encounters: Daryl finding her alone in the cell block long enough to briefly grip her shoulder, the sheepish blush on his cheeks when his fingers touched hers just a second too long, and the whispered exchanges about council meetings.

It was a struggle to not think about possibilities, of taking one of those touches just one step further.

* * *

For just one task master, Carol managed to miss only miniscule amounts of work. But when she was off her game, everyone took notice. On a Friday in early August even Carl beat Carol to the breakfast table. She slumped into a seat, just as the teenager polished off his breakfast. A dull ache throbbed at her temple.

Beth asked if she was feeling okay and the other breakfast stragglers erupted into concern.

"Did you sleep well?"

"Do you have a fever?"

"Are you hungry?"

By the time Carol managed to assure everyone that yes, she slept well and no, she didn't have fever (Hershel confirmed this by testing her forehead), her stomach let out a loud grumble, answering the last question. A second later there was a full bowl of oatmeal in front of her and at least five pairs of eyes checking for weakness. Beth slid a batch of blueberries across the table too. ("Anti-oxidants are good for you.")

Carol spooned a few globs of oatmeal into her mouth, which appeased most of the worried looks.

She'd be lying if she said the extra sleep hadn't felt good. Carol couldn't remember the last time she woke up to the sound of activity rather than the sun's light on her face. Mentally, she crafted her list of tasks for the day. She was getting a late start, but they could still be accomplished, no harm done.

First, clean the practice knives. The council, just last week, agreed to her suggestion that the children should learn how to defend themselves. They'll used dull weapons for it (there were plenty of old knives people donated for the cause), but Carol could teach the younger ones proper grips and techniques. It settled a pit in her gut knowing that at least the children here would be better prepared than her daughter.

Second, she also wanted to sort out all the medical books from the prison library and place them into the new medical room. The prison was effectively become its own town; there was space for clothing, a section for medical recovery and practices, and rooms that acted as general stores. Carol wanted to have the entire complex organized by the time winter rolled around. She also wanted information properly distributed so people could expand their skill sets. There wasn't room to possess just one specialty anymore.

Both of these jobs could be done alone; the quiet would, hopefully, help disperse her headache.

The sun crept in the high windows just as she scrapped her bowl clean. Only Beth was left at the table now, collecting empty plates. Carol took her fresh blueberries to go. She felt a sense of confidence as she wound through the prison, a kind of homemaker pride she hadn't felt since right after she married Ed. The feeling lightened her steps all the way to the weapon room. Once inside, Carol greeted the woman, Sheryl, who was counting non-traditional weapons like crow bars and golf clubs.

To her surprise, Carol found her knives had already been cleaned. Even the dents had been smoothed out. She turned each one over in her hand and found them gleaming. No specks of dried blood. Perplexed, Carol wrapped up the collection. She tapped her lip in thought, trying to remember if she had assigned the task to someone else and had just completely forgotten. No, that couldn't be it; they had just collected the bunch yesterday.

And it was _her_ task.

Sheryl read Carol's confusion and informed her that she saw Daryl cleaning the knives earlier this morning.

Ah.

Well.

On to the next task then.

In the library, she was stymied again. Glenn and Carl were tearing through the shelves and sorting books into piles. The books wafted their papery smell as the two young men flipped pages back and forth. Some stacks nearly reached her waist. When Glenn caught sight of her, he waved a copy of _Sleeping Beauty_ at her under his cheeky grin.

Carol rolled her eyes good-naturedly and snatched the book from his hands. "I guess Daryl's been here too," she mused, peering at dusty covers and dog -eared pages. She tucked _Sleeping Beauty_ under her arm.

Carl confirmed her thoughts with a drawn out "Yep." He shook his shaggy bangs from his face, trying to read some small print. "Don't worry about it, we got this."

It was sweet of them, but now her entire itinerary for the day was nearly completed and she hadn't lifted a finger. She could disregard Carl's suggestion and stay to help. But, Glenn and Carl moved like they had a system, a bit chaotic, but it worked. There were only a few more nonfiction shelves untouched.

If she was completely honest, her mind was preoccupied elsewhere anyway. Two tasks in one day? "Do you know where Mr. Dixon ran off to?"

"I'm pretty sure he's walking the fence," Glenn chimed. He had picked up on Maggie's habit of wiggling suggestive eyebrows at her when Daryl was mentioned. What a pair! At least someone got a kick out of whatever slow dance her and Daryl were stepping to.

They chatted for a few more minutes, Carl grumpy about excessive garden duty. Glenn hoisted a group of fiction books and disappeared behind a shelf, but not before giving Carol a pointed look.

"I'll have a new schedule come next week," she assured Carl, though they both knew Rick was the one dictating Carl's farming timetable. Carl let out a stereotypical teenager sigh that almost dragged a snort from Carol. Instead, an idea struck her and she gave the teenager's shoulder a squeeze. He'd be a good assistant for the knife class, closer in age to the students. Carol winked and promised, "New schedule, new jobs."

She thanked them, left _Sleeping Beauty_ in the fairy tale pile, and left for her new mission. The hallway was empty, but the commotion of activity came from outside and from other rooms. At least everyone else was being productive, or at least it sounded like they were. Carol pushed the door to the outside and was momentarily blinded by the sun. After a few recovery seconds, she strode across the blacktop and spotted the neon green flash from Daryl's bolts in between the two outer fences.

After shutting the gate behind her, she approached him from behind. His ever-present crossbow was slung across his back, Daryl choosing instead to wield a pointed crowbar. He cocked an ear at the sound of crunched gravel. In a lazy motion, Daryl waved on his teenage partner, Nick, who trotted ahead, pausing only to stab walkers through the chain link.

"Here you are," she called, stepping alongside him. "You took all my tasks today."

Daryl scratched his chin, reasoning, "Looked like you could use a rest."

"Mmm, well, now that I'm rested, I'll have to find something else to do today." They reached one corner and took a turn. A walker smashed its face against the fence, calling for flesh. "I guess I could help in the kitchen."

Daryl thrust the crowbar into her hands. With a twist of his torso, Daryl turned and jammed a knife through the walker's eyeball. It crumpled instantly. Daryl then wiped his knife across his thigh.

Carol pointed at his pants. "I'm sure there's washing to do..." These days, the list in her mind was perpetually in a state of completed or incomplete. Washing was never checked off. Her hands twitched around the crowbar as her thoughts trailed.

Daryl pulled her attention back to him with a whistle and set their unhurried pace again. "You ain't gotta do nothing. It's all bein' done." Still feeling guilty about her late start, Carol opened her mouth to argue, but Daryl stopped her with the lightest touch on her lower back. "Walk with me."

A spark ignited in her brain as all the pieces clicked together.

Her tasks completed.

Him at the fence, ready with a crowbar.

Carol jutted her chin out with a light accusation. "Was this all part of some plan to get me out here?"

Daryl turned away from her direct question, but she saw the heat bloom on the back of his neck. "Just thought you could use a day off."

Carol chuckled and saved the moment by bumping her shoulder into his. "Thank you."

Together they patrolled the outer fence, calmly dispatching walkers along the way, sharing some concerns and thoughts about the last few days. At a few points, Daryl stopped and shook the fence, testing its strength and murmuring about reinforcement. When silence settled between them, Carol found herself filling it up with rants. Just small things that had piled up without her even realizing it.

The loss of the quiet before Woodbury.

The way Rick continued to shirk duties, but then found ways to insert himself into council decisions.

Concerns about winter food sources and how no one had presented a solution yet.

Daryl spoke little, letting her purge these ramblings with nothing more than a nod to tell her to continue. It wasn't long until Carol felt as if a burden had been lifted from her back. She ended her session with a heavy sigh. At that moment, Carol noticed her headache was gone. "Thank you for listening."

"Ain't no thing."

Except it was everything.

Ed never went out of his way to help her. If anything, her husband looked for ways to increase her work load. He'd use two plates for dinner, sat on a couch covered in crumbs, crunch the car bumper against a tree and then yell at her when it wasn't repaired the next day. He'd dump his work drama on her lap, then ignore her anxieties and troubles, as if she wasn't allowed to have difficult times. To have someone, to have Daryl, set up this day for her nearly brought tears to her eyes.

Carol stalled their walk to squeeze Daryl's forearm. He gave her one of his half grins that she completed with her own.

They spent the entire day strolling, sandwiched between the two fences. When they reached one end, they simply turned around and started again. Walkers fell, hours passed. By the time the sky turned deep orange, Carol felt refreshed rather than exhausted.

When they trekked back up to the prison, all smirks and ease, Carol decided she might have to start scheduling sleep-in days for herself.

* * *

A few days later, the prison held its breath after a nearly disastrous run the night before. All the anxiety had left a bitter taste in the air, where it seemed to cling to the walls. Like after a fire, sometimes the only way to disperse the smoke was to air it out. Carol managed to find peace in solitary productivity while the community slept in.

The whole prison had stood vigil with wide eyes, some brimming with preemptive tears when the group didn't return by mid afternoon. They were over a day late. Casual excuses escalated into worried whispers and demands for search parties. Each second stretched like an hour and each hour was a lifetime of agony. It only got worse when the sun set because nobody could distract themselves with tasks in the dark.

Carol had hid her own fear behind reassuring words, but still needed to wipe the sweat from her palms over and over.

Just when they were reaching a boiling point, the roar of an engine ripped through the night and the gate was opened.

A broken ankle, a concussion, and more than a few bloody scrapes were shared by the returning group. She had watched in horror as the injured were unloaded under the starry sky, waiting for the worst.

Daryl had been the first out of the car, lip bloodied, anger in every jerky motion. He had dropped curses about inexperience. There were terse responses muttered by the others under heavy breaths. Vicious kicks flung mud from boots.

When all the injured were out of the car, Daryl slammed the door shut, each curse rowdier than the last. Walkers rattled at the fence, attracted by the extra noise. Any relief that had washed over the community stuttered to a stop with the dead banging on the door and the quiet hunter on a rampage. Carol noted the confusion amongst the crowd; everyone was alive, why the anger?

Rick had tried to calm Daryl down with the logical reasons: It was late, after all, everyone was tired, nobody was bit, right? Looked like there was a good haul. Breakdowns and reviews could be left till the morning. Sort out the problems then.

Daryl pushed away the other man's words and jabbed a finger in Rick's face. "You ain't out there, man. Fuck off."

Someone sobbed. People stumbled off, the injured lifted between arms and shoulders. Others glanced over the supplies and then darted between the gardener and Daryl. Hershel limped up the road to ready his needles and medical supplies, shooting a reminder over his shoulder that arguments could wait. Rick and Daryl sized each other up until Daryl spat a bloody wad at the ground and stormed off.

The provisions were abandoned in the vehicle till this morning when Tyreese, Glenn, and Sasha unpacked the truck. Metal sheeting for fence reinforcement. Tool kits, first aid supplies. Pillows and yarn and clothing. There were even pet carriers someone wanted to rig into squirrel or rabbit traps.

Thunder rattled the windows in the clothing storage room. An appropriate start to the day. Carol had taken over clothing sorting for Amanda, whose husband now rested in a cast. Hershel had stitched three severe gashes last night, in addition to setting Alex's ankle.

Carol counted the boxes stacked around the room, eleven, each overflowing with shirts, pants, and goodness knew what else. She took one look at the dark sky and began to pace herself so she could empty all the cardboard containers by noon. Then, she'd probably join Hershel with the injured, since the other doctor had come back with a concussion.

Every run was dangerous.

They did their best to set up each one for success.

She made a mental note to create a list of priority, people who shouldn't go on runs because their skills were too precious. The doctors ranked at the top.

When a run failed, Carol eased off the gas pedal on unnecessary jobs. Most people were given the day off. Three, Sasha, and twins named Jose and Mark, patrolled and reinforced the fence. Glenn and Maggie were on watch tower duty. Other than that, healing and unwinding were the only responsibilities for the day.

Carol ticked through these thoughts and then tore her mind away from the unanswered questions from last night and focused on the task at hand. Unpacking brought back memories of moving in with Ed. Funny that Ed never let her have decent clothing and now she was elbow deep in expensive fabric.

She set aside a Superman shirt for Carl and green dress for Maggie. Rick had mentioned needing pants for gardening so she folded a pair of cargo pants and put it in the pile. For Daryl, the dark flannel. It would serve him well come winter. And for herself, a blue top, just a touch of embroidery around the neck.

"Mornin'."

Carol dropped the shirt at Daryl's announcement, but recovered quickly. "You're supposed to be sleeping."

"Can't sleep." He entered the room, favoring his right leg. Daryl stopped on the other side of her box and admitted, "Came to see what you were doin'."

The tightness in her brow fell away at his confession. "Sorting clothes. You guys came back with a lot." Her hand dove through a sleeve and pulled it right side right, wondering about the calculating look he wore. Each box could burst into flames under the heat of his gaze. Without a word, Daryl eased himself into a nearby chair.

Lightning flickered outside, exposing the nasty bruise on Daryl's cheek that she didn't get a full look at last night.

"Looks like you could use some ice." She tapped her face and then gestured to his, knowing full well that there was no ice. Sometimes, if she proposed an "extreme" solution, he'd accept a lesser one; like actually taking it easy for a day. When he didn't move, Carol raised an eyebrow. Back to those unanswered questions then. "What happened last night?"

Daryl ran a hand over his leg, grimaced, and shook his head. "I was an asshole."

"No, I mean, on the run." The organizer in her required the details so she could back up her priority list with facts; if someone wasn't fit for runs, than they wouldn't go on them. There were plenty of other tasks. Carol folded the shirt in her hands and then turned all her attention to the man in front of her. Bloodied lip, bruised face, a limp, nothing life threatening, but still. She stepped around the box separating them to get a closer look.

Carefully, she turned his head to face the light. He surprised her by leaning into her palm. "Ran into some crazy bastard. Not right in the head."

"Were you by yourself?" Carol changed the angle with a small touch to his jaw. The bruise spread like deep purple ink from the contact point on his cheek. Nothing _looked_ broken.

Daryl dropped his head, breaking the contact with a soft hiss. "People hesitated. I got a pipe to the face." There was no hiding the bitterness raking off him, although its target was unclear. "Bastard pulled a gun, Wade finally shot 'em." With a shrug he concluded, "Got all the walkers' attention and then we fought them. Alex broke his ankle over a damn coffee can. We hunkered down for a few hours."

"What happened to your leg?"

"Fell," he answered blandly.

Carol leaned back against a stack of boxes. Too many variables. Not everyone was ready to confront the living, even after the Governor; they were a completely different target than the rotting dead. At the same time, going out in a group of six might have been too much. They needed cohesiveness.

"We should start training sessions again now we need bigger runs. It's a little different than just you and Michonne or Glenn."

"Just need people with a clear head."

"Next committee meeting. Make sure you speak up. They'll want to know who can do runs and who can't." Carol stated, adding the task to her mental calendar. She then ran her half lidded gaze over him again, saw exhausted muscles tweak, his lips pressed together, the slow expansion of his broad chest when he inhaled, and wanted to say a thousand more things. "You really should have Hershel check that out and then try to sleep." The last part came out as whisper.

Daryl hummed in resigned agreement. The chair scrapped across the floor as he stood. "Got somethin' for you."

He reached into his back pocket and in a sunset flash draped a scarf over her head, taking care to tuck it behind her ears. His hands fumbled at the base of her neck when the fabric settled, finger tips tickling her skin. Daryl then dropped both palms to his thighs, muttering something about it looking better if she did it.

The boxes and the run were forgotten.

The silk glided through her fingers as Carol reached back and tied a knot to hold the gift in place. Daryl stuffed his hands in his pockets with a small smirk pushing his bruised cheek. The scarf was one of those fashion statements meant to be wrapped around the neck loosely, so the extra material trailed down her back like a mane. She wished for a mirror, but the glimmer of approval in Daryl's gaze would have to do. "Thank you."

He grunted, but nodded. "Better go talk to Rick. Get things sorted."

There was always something else to do.

Her fingers twitched, clenched, pulling on an invisible thread in an attempt keep him here. She wanted to ask him to stay, just a few minutes more, until the thunder storm passed. Carol twirled the long end of the scarf around her wrist with a sigh. After all the drama with the run...

He was already halfway out the door when she called after him in a sing-song voice, "So, did you pick this up before or after the pipe to the face?"

Daryl braced himself on the door frame and replied over his shoulder, "Before. Was the first thing I grabbed."

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Ha, "two chapters" I said. And then, I kept writing. There will be one more. Shout out to those who reviewed the first chapter, you guys rock.

Thanks for reading! Feedback is greatly appreciated.-randomcat23


	3. Rushing Time

**Disclaimer:** Randomcat23 does not own The Walking Dead.

* * *

Each morning that week Carol carefully tied the scarf around her head, recalling the entire scene with a grin. She hand-washed it herself and unknotted it after sliding it from her hair to keep the fabric from kinking.

Several women showered Carol with compliments about the hair piece. She had a sneaking suspicion that everyone simply missed forms of personal expression, but that didn't stop her from strutting around the food pavilion with her new accessory. Over the hot grill, Sheryl asked her where she found it with awe.

"It was in the clothing room." Carol left it at that. After all, who was to say that there weren't other accessories that snuck their way in with the utilitarian clothing? She could have said, "Oh, Daryl gave it to me," and sauntered off like the cat who got the mouse. But that was too close to staking claim, too much like speaking for him. Though, it was getting progressively more difficult to refrain from such answers...especially when he did things like this.

It was such a simple thing, really. The scarf could be nothing more than a token from a friend, a splash of color in this dark world, a welcome addition to her small collection. Nothing to parade about, really. Not like this was the first thing Daryl's ever given her.

But, still.

Carol chided herself only once over her delight before giving in to it. It was, after all, the end of the world. Small things meant more now.

They had to grab happiness where it could be found, she reasoned.

And with all the tiny moments between her and Daryl, Carol found herself reliving the type of glee she hadn't felt since high school. The kind of reckless, uncontrollable giddiness that use to come from a note hidden in a locker or getting asked to prom by the star quarterback.

She felt like a balloon about to burst.

Too much had been allowed to grow since they made the prison a home. The jokes were no longer enough. The glances started leaving more longing in her belly than before. She swore they were teetering on the edge of something.

They just needed a bit more time.

* * *

Until everyone could be trained and protocols established, they went back to the tried and true method of smaller team runs. One duo went out every day, looking for remnants of useful things. In the mean time, other practiced veterans taught volunteers tactics for runs. After a few weeks, new run members would be integrated into the schedule. Carol figured the more people trained for runs, the better. Sometimes different people had better eyes for rarer items. It gave them flexibility and gave others rest from the stressful job.

It also meant that Daryl would stay at the prison more often.

He and Michonne had been out since yesterday (as always, he was stubborn, barely letting the bruise on his face turn yellow before reinserting himself into runs). In the near future, they'd have to start traveling farther to find supplies. But for now, the garden was thriving and the game traps were producing well. The fresh food allowed them to stock away what little canned goods that remained and the few they found. Additionally, a woman from Woodbury revealed the secret to jarring fruit.

The prospect of the winter months lost some of its threat.

Carol was filling her laundry tub by the water barrel when their truck pulled up to the gate. A gaggle of kids, led by Carl, rushed through the swaying corn stalks to eye the new supplies. The group made it to the truck just as the second gate locked, sending the walkers into a snarling rage. Even at this distance, Rick's grin was easy to spot (he hadn't given up greeting returnees first). He clapped Daryl's shoulder, signifying the needed supplies were in tow.

Carol ran a hand through her hair as a steady breeze swept through the prison yard. She let out a sigh of relief.

Everything was good.

Daryl lingered by the truck for a few more minutes, taking the necessary time to run through a list of what they found. Carol returned to the task at hand, but handed the tub to one of the nearby teenagers when Daryl began his way up the road.

She admired the slight swagger in his hips as he approached her spot at the water bucket. He really was breathtaking, all hard-earned strength and panther-like grace. Daryl's smooth strides were interrupted only when he swatted a hand at a large bug.

Cicadas, the sirens of summer, filled the air with their raspy chirping. Just other day she had jokingly poked Daryl about catching and eating the clumsy insects. In response, he had grabbed one off a fence and flicked it at her face, a mischievous gleam in his eyes.

Carol bit back a grin at the memory and welcomed Daryl with a small wave.

"Damn bugs," he cursed. "So loud, walkers were sneakin' up on us." A gooey wing clung to the back of his hand. Daryl shook it off with a growl.

"Did you run into a lot of trouble?" She rested a hand on her hip, stepping back so he could access a pail on the ground. Black blood freckled his arms, but her practiced eye spotted no injuries.

Good.

With a turn of the spigot, water splashed from rain barrel to pail. His dark shirt stretched across broad shoulder blades as he crouched. "Naw," Daryl cut his complaint short and splashed a bit of water on the back of his neck. "How 'bout here?"

"We made up new chores lists for everyone. You and Michonne are-"

Daryl stood and dumped the pail over his head, effectively destroying her concentration.

With a splash, water plastered hair to his forehead and carried away two days worth of sweat, dust, and blood. Carol stood mesmerized by the way the water dripped off his lips, over his chest, and down his arms. An unfiltered grin tugged at his cheeks, taking away years from his face.

Then a spatter of water to her eyes sent her into a sputtering fit. Head shaking, Carol swiped at the liquid. "Daryl!"

Daryl Dixon _did not_ just spit water at her.

Her protest was counterattacked by Daryl's hearty chuckle. "Whatcha starin' at?"

Ah, caught _again_ in the act. Feasible responses formed as the last of the water dribbled off her chin.

 _"Just looking for injuries."_

 _"Just happy to see you back safe."_

Those answers fell flat, like they couldn't stand up to the burden of feelings she wished to convey. (Not to mention that they didn't explain her chopped sentence.) They were the safe responses, the counterbalance to the flirty look and the teasing. They were the way to keep the status quo.

Instead, Carol decided to gamble. She raised her fingers into a rectangle shaping his face. "I'm just trying to figure you out."

He dipped his head, jostling water droplets from his hair. They quickly dried in the heat. Daryl then returned her stare through squinted eyes. With a voice barely above a whisper, he drawled, "What, exactly, about me?"

Watching be damned.

Carol leaned in and pressed her lips against his. It didn't last for more than a second, just long enough to make its target unmistakable, just enough to taste him. She drew back, lips wet, the buzzing in her brain and heart syncing with the cicadas' hum.

Oh.

When her eyelids fluttered open, her nerves went rigid. The storm brewing in his gaze dashed the playful atmosphere upon the ground like a shattered beer bottle, no hopes for reconstruction. In those cloudy orbs and tight lips she caught something unnamable. And to make it worse, he had turned to stone, arms frozen half raised, knuckles white around the pail.

Oh.

What had she done?

"Hey, Carol! Where do you want this dish soap?!"

Mercy, thy name is Glenn.

Carol snapped her head around to give directions to Glenn ("In the new laundry shack."). She struggled to keep her voice calm with the tension coiling up her back like a deadly constrictor. It didn't seem like anyone had witnessed the moment, but Carol made a show of watching the rest of the supplies being carried to the prison.

She didn't have to turn to know Daryl had wasted no time taking his silent escape.

* * *

She didn't see him for the rest of the afternoon.

Since Daryl sulked off to the prison building proper, Carol attempted to put herself to work in the garden. Rick asked her about garden duties and she resorted to stuttering the first words that formed, something about squashed tomato plants. Or was it about planting squashes?

Her hands were shaking so much that she actually dropped a basket full of cucumbers, the vegetables falling with dull thuds on the path.

"Carol, are you alright?" Maggie swept in to pick up the spilled harvest.

"I'm fine."

The younger woman raised an eyebrow. When Carol tried to lift the basket, Maggie rejected her with a firm shake of the head. "I got this."

Aimless and, quite frankly, inexplicably exhausted, Carol crept toward her cell (successfully avoiding Daryl and whatever hole he had crawled into) and tried to ignore the pit in her stomach that had replaced the blossoming glee. Her feet sputtered to a halt just inside the doorway when her eyes fell on the scarf Daryl had gifted her last week.

Her eyes stung.

Carol parked herself on the edge of her bed and sucked in the tears that threatened to fall. Did she really misread everything? All those shared moments, the flirting, the way he looked at her. Or the way she _thought_ he looked at her. Carol raised her hand to her lips and crunched on the corner of a finger nail.

Her sudden uncertainty stirred long stilled waters. Drudged up from the depths of her mind, Ed mocked her, and prompted all the old responses to claw up her throat.

 _"I'm sorry."_

 _"I shouldn't have done that."_

 _"I should have known better."_

Carol burrowed deeply into her mattress, wishing for night to settle in. She drew her legs up tight against her body.

In the seconds before she had leaned in, Carol had honestly thought that the kiss would be fine. Maybe she hadn't envisioned it going down so spontaneously, but Carol had thought it would be awkward, shy, but fine. (Really, it went down better than just fine, setting aside the aftermath. No nose bumping or missing target.)

 _"I'm so sorry."_

 _"I'm so, so sorry."_

Something snapped then, her mind abruptly releasing all the worn out apologies like ashes in the wind.

She was not who she was with Ed.

Daryl was most certainly not Ed.

And, damn it, she _wasn't_ sorry she kissed Daryl Dixon.

Carol kicked away Ed's lingering sneers, that conclusion rippling through her.

She wasn't sorry.

And, thankfully, she had time to fix whatever damage had been done.

* * *

She found Daryl at a picnic bench in the dying sun, his strong silhouette dark against the orange sky. The cicadas had been replaced with fireflies, living stars that died and were reborn at the edge of the woods. Carol missed the noisy insects of day; the quiet bugs did nothing to hide the rapid pulse in her chest.

But maybe it was for the better; after all, she didn't want to startle Daryl. Though, she had thought that after all the hours apart, there would be less pressure compressed between his shoulders.

With a tight nod, Daryl welcomed her to sit down. His foot twitched just slightly, so Carol left a sizable gap between them. She steeled her nerves while he focused on the garden.

There was nowhere to start except with his name. "Daryl . . ."

" 'M sorry." Daryl shot up like a bolt in the dark. For one second he looked back at her surprised face and then began pacing. "Rick's been sayin' stupid shit...And Glenn," he paused with a huff, "even dumber shit..."

Taken aback by his reaction, Carol raised a hand to calm his rapid-fire explanation. She hadn't expected him to become a marching pendulum. Rather, in all her mental scenarios of this conversation, she expected to be the one doing all the talking. And what exactly has been said? How did this suddenly become about Rick and Glenn? Fear burned in the back of her mind, but Daryl wasn't running away. Carol clung to that fact as she swallowed the lump in her throat.

Daryl continued his broken attempt at clarifying himself. "But I...never thought you would...I ain't...ain't..." He trailed off with a gesture at himself.

Oh.

Oh, this man.

Her mouth gapped at the implication behind his words, pieces falling into place. _Disbelief_ was that unnamable cloud she read just after her lips left his.

Old scars never really go away.

But, they didn't have to shape the future.

Carol gathered herself up and stepped into his self-imposed cage, forcing him to cease his marching and denial. In that moment, he looked so small, fists bouncing off his thighs, gaze guarded. The anxious energy bursting at his muscle and bone sank down to his shuffling feet. She rested a smooth palm on each stubbly cheek.

"'M sorry," he choked again, eyes darting over her shoulder, to her hairline, and then her boots.

"What for?" In an effort to still her trembling fingers, Carol pressed them into his face gently. Maybe she could steady him too.

Even in the dark, his eyes shined, "For runnin'...for not..." Words lost again, Daryl let out an exasperated sigh and clutched her to him.

Her skin hummed at the contact, her senses overwhelmed with him, his musky scent, his rapid heartbeat, his strong embrace. It had been years since she had been held with such care, such need. This is what she had wanted this afternoon, this bliss. It had been there (she knew that now) squashed under his doubt and shock.

Carol found her voice and reasoned into the side of his neck, "I caught you off guard." Her shoulders bumped a bit. "Believe me, I didn't exactly plan it." Not when she had been telling herself for weeks that they were taking their time, slowly approaching whatever destination was at the end. Not when she was convinced that they had all the time in the world, until suddenly, today, she wanted to spend all that time together rather than anticipating a possible future.

The blunt admission earned her a bark of laughter that eroded into nervous chuckles. He held her at arm distance then, and asked over a pant, "You sure?"

Carol squeezed his hand. "I was this afternoon, why wouldn't I be now?"

He stilled at her voice.

The moonlight hit the back of his neck, casting his features in shadow. A firefly blinked between them and in its tiny glow, Carol caught the second Daryl accepted her words. He began drawing her in again, taking time to brush fingertips over her bare shoulder and down her arm.

It all cascaded over in a moment; he anchored himself at her wrist and pulled her flush with him. This time when he dipped his head, Daryl planted the briefest kiss on her lips. It mirrored the one she had given this afternoon, too short, but made intentions clear.

He was done wasting time too.

The second one lasted twice as long.

Daryl pulled away first and rested his forehead on hers. While he found his breath, Carol purred, "You know, I _do_ control the schedule."

Daryl stiffened, then chided, "That's abuse of power."

She kissed him again to stop his frown, and then just a little longer. Because she could. Then again, because now there was so much time (and he squirmed just a tad, in a good way). "Nonsense. This is just as important as fence duty. You could use a break."

"You need a break too," he insisted, all serious again.

"We'll break together." Smirking triumphantly, Carol positioned his hands on the sides of her waist and then ran hers up behind his neck.

Daryl groaned when she pressed against him. "But I ain't sure I'll get any rest around you," he breathed hotly against her ear.

"Don't worry, Pookie, there will be plenty of time for that too."

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Complete! Sorry this one took a bit longer to post! It took me awhile to figure out how I was going to write their interactions, so let me know what you think.

I'm sure I'll return to the prison timeline in the future. It's a nice break from season six angst. Thanks for reading! -randomcat23


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